Denial Ain't Just a River
by frozenlaughter
Summary: Jim Kirk may not be an MD, but he *is* a genius. So he can tell when a cold isn't just a cold, right? No reason to bring a tricorder into this, none at all.
1. Chapter 1

**Denial Ain't Just a River**

A/N: This is my first ST!Reboot fic, and my first fic in a longlong time, so I figured I'd start with a nice, easy Sick!Jim. What finally delurked me was discovering that _TOS_ Kirk had, at one point in his youth, a disease called "vegan choriomeningitis." Honestly, the opportunity was just too good to pass up.

This is just Kirk/McCoy friendship, but I *could* be persuaded to make it into something more . . .

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except maybe my dreams, and even those are of licensed characters.

All mistakes are mine, and kind and constructive reviews are appreciated. Rated, to be safe, for language and very briefly implied child abuse.

* * *

It wasn't that Jim Kirk hated doctors; he wouldn't have made it through the Academy without Bones and his trusty medkit, and he knew that. And it wasn't even that he hated hypos, for all the fuss he made about them. He wasn't _that_ juvenile.

What it boiled down to was, Jim Kirk hated weakness. To him, the only thing worse than feeling weakness was _showing_ it, and now that he was a starship captain, that had never been truer. He didn't like to think about why this was so, why he felt so compelled to hide his vulnerability under the thick cover of cocky certainty. Doing so would take him to places he promised himself he would never again go, like his dark bedroom in Iowa, or the warehouse on Tarsus IV. It didn't take a genius to realize that 'ignoring' wasn't the same as 'coping,' but hell, everyone gets by the best they can, and he was no exception.

So when Jim Kirk woke up feeling like he'd just been fed through the waste compactor, his first thought was, "Avoid a tricorder at all costs." This was followed closely by, "Take a shower, drink coffee, get to the Bridge, and don't let Bones come anywhere near you." Jim was good at compartmentalizing, disturbingly good, especially when it involved physical pain; years of bar brawls fought before he had a doctor waiting in the wings had taught him to deal with, and even relish, a little soreness. If he could set his own dislocated shoulder while bleeding freely from at least three places on his face—now _that_ had been a night to remember—he could work through whatever bug was in his system without the aid of Bones and his hypos.

He didn't have a choice, really, or so Jim told himself as he cleaned up and dressed, avoiding the mirror. Now wasn't the moment for him to prove that he was all too human, as if there ever was one, especially with his seemingly invulnerable First Officer breathing down his neck. Their most recent away mission had been a veritable disaster—no casualties, but it was damn near close, thanks to a gaping misjudgment on his part—and the last thing he wanted or needed was his crew's already shaky confidence in him to be damaged further by watching him fold under the weight of what was likely a common cold. As captain, he had to be superhuman; though none of them would admit to it, it's what everyone expected.

Groaning, Jim told himself he would sneak down to Sickbay during delta shift, when Bones would be safely asleep in his quarters and he could charm a painkiller from one of the younger nurses without a full body inspection. Though, depending on the nurse, he might want one of those . . .

But fuck, did laughing make his head hurt.

He kept the lights in his room at 20%, just enough for him to avoid taking a header over his desk, but dark enough to allow him to open his eyes without knives boring into his brain. The cups of extra strong replicator coffee he was downing were already clearing his head, but Jim knew the bright, noisy Bridge would still be an unpleasant experience. Steeling himself, he massaged his stiff neck through the material of his gold command shirt, straightened his posture, and opened the door.

* * *

Three days later, and Jim was still steeling himself every time he left his quarters.

To his unending displeasure, the cold hadn't let up, even after the remedies supplied by one particularly helpful redheaded nurse; unlike Bones and Chapel, she hadn't been completely immune to the old Kirk charm. But for now, he was a shivery mass of aches and pains, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide his condition under the watchful eyes of his crew. Jim knew he looked as bad as he felt, the bags under his eyes getting darker as the rest of his skin grew paler, but so far Spock had merely given him 'the eyebrow' and not directly confronted him. And God knew Spock would be the first to call him out on any aberrant behavior. Loudly. For everyone to hear. For sure, he and the Vulcan had reached a tentative truce in the first months of their mission, and he even dared to think of them as friends now, but their conversations still lacked an element of subtlety because, of course, dancing around a point wasn't _logical_.

So at least Jim knew his discomfort wasn't affecting his leadership yet, but considering the fact that he hadn't been able to look up from his PADD for the last 30 minutes for fear that the lights and the movement would make him dry heave, that probably wouldn't last for much longer. But hey, at least he wouldn't _actually_ vomit all over himself, considering he'd given precedence to sleeping over eating for the past few days. It's the little things, really.

Jim sighed as he checked his watch; they had to have fallen into some sort of warp or black hole or "singularity" that had made time slow to a stop, because this was shaping up to be the longest shift on record. Made even longer by the knowledge that he had a showdown with Bones waiting on the other side. He knew his friend suspected something wasn't right after Jim had begged off their weekly whiskey chat the evening before without a good excuse handy, and the older man had strong-armed him into meeting him for dinner tonight. A dinner that will inevitably go to shit five minutes in, when Jim orders hot broth instead of a steak dinner because it's all he can imagine tolerating, and Bones whips out a tricorder from God knows where and goes at him. The night will end with him hypo'd up to his eyeballs in Sickbay, with gossip flying around about how the mighty Captain Kirk was completely incapacitated by the sniffles, and possibly with Spock twirling in The Chair, mad with glee . . . though that may just be the fever talking.

No way he lets any of that happen—especially the twirling—no matter how alluring the thought of pain-free unconsciousness is.

He'd have to head Bones off at the pass, so to speak. Get him in his office, alone. Admit to something that wouldn't raise the doctor's hackles, since he knew the man wouldn't accept complete denial. Agree to take some medicine, with the promise of resting in his quarters (which he truthfully planned on doing, because his body hadn't left him much of a choice). And then stay out of the man's sight until this stupid thing passed.

What's a little diplomatic strategy between friends?

The Bridge was quiet, so he gave the conn to Spock with the excuse of needing to get some paperwork done, trying not to read any glee into the prompt response. The room spun when he stood and his skull gave a particularly violent throb, but Jim didn't look up to see if anyone had noticed, nor did he particularly care at this moment; he just needed to get out while his legs still held him.

The quiet of the turbolift was soothing after the constant bustle of the bridge, and, resting his clammy forehead against the cool metal wall, he was tempted to stop it mid-ride to give himself some time to regroup. But the faster he got this over with, the sooner he would be in bed, in the dark, hopefully with a sedative running through his system. Jim braced himself, mentally and physically, as the lift stopped, and stepped out toward Sickbay.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow, I'm overwhelmed by all the reviews/favorites/story alerts—but especially the reviews ;) Thanks to everyone for the feedback! I've decided to keep this a gen fic, but for those who wanted kirk/mccoy, you can definitely read pre-slash into it. **

**This chapter is McCoy POV, which gave me some trouble and was subsequently written and rewritten several times in lieu of me doing my reading for class tomorrow. Oops. I have a general idea of the rest of the fic in my head, but if there's any specific scene or moment you would like to see, let me know and I'll see what I can do. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer/Warning: I don't own these guys; just check my bank account. Rated for language. Any mistakes are mine, especially since I edited this at 4am.  
**

* * *

There were two things Doctor Leonard McCoy knew for certain: One, that he was CMO to the most intelligent and resourceful crew in Starfleet; and two, that this crew was also the most accident-prone, idiotic group of leap-before-you-lookers this side of the galaxy.

Case in point: He was currently bent over one Ensign Wilson, who had shown up earlier with an ass full of what looked to be metal pine needles, and a marked reluctance to tell anyone how they had gotten there. McCoy didn't give a shit, really, except that the needles were proving surprisingly difficult to remove, and a procedure that should have taken at most an hour had now eaten up the majority of his day. And he still had one cheek to go.

He knew there was still a reason to hate space.

Needless to say, McCoy was relieved when Nurse Chapel appeared and motioned for him to join her outside the privacy screen. He set down his tweezers and rolled his neck, trying to crack out the stiffness, but paused when he noticed the small frown she wore.

"What's wrong, Christine?" When she didn't respond immediately, McCoy's breath caught in his chest; the look on her face normally meant one thing and one thing only. "What happened to Jim?"

He must have sounded as panicked as he felt, because Chapel stepped forward to place a calming hand on his arm. "No, Leonard, everything's okay, the Captain just wants to speak with you in your office." He could hear the hesitation in her voice.

"What aren't you telling me?" That came off more aggressive than he had intended; he would have to apologize later.

"The Captain seems—well, you'll see." Chapel looked at him seriously. "Let me know if you need anything."

McCoy walked into the main area of the Sickbay, wondering what to expect; seeing his friend in various states of disrepair may not surprise him anymore, but it never got any easier. He spotted Jim by the office, pale, sweaty, and leaning heavily against the wall, looking like it was all that was holding him up. He'd looked worse, for sure, but there was definitely something wrong.

"Where are you bleeding?" McCoy skipped past the pleasantries, doing a visual scan of his friend for any open wounds and readying his tricorder to look for any internal injuries. Predictably, the younger man brushed him off.

"Why hello to you too, Bones." Jim's voice was rough, and he was avoiding meeting McCoy's eyes. Not a good sign. "You can stop hovering—I'm not bleeding on your floor, for once."

"Well you've got Chapel fussing, and frankly, you look like hell. And when it comes to you, two plus two is four." McCoy scowled and pushed the younger man into his office. "Now sit down before you fall down."

Jim still kept his eyes averted, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I'm not hurt, Bones, honestly. I'm just . . . tired."

There was a beat as McCoy lifted an eyebrow at his friend.

"Right. I know it takes a lot more than that to get you down here—not that I mind you saving me a trip to the Bridge." Jim barely cracked a smile, and McCoy tugged his chair closer. "Talk to me, Jim."

"It's nothing, really. I just haven't been sleeping and it's caught up to me." Jim bit his lip and sighed tiredly. "And I knew if I showed up to dinner looking like this and tried to talk to you about it there, you'd make a scene. Probably hypo me at the table."

McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose; at least the kid was being honest with him. He knew there were very few people Jim would let see him like this, and he realized that while there were plenty of things about his friend that he didn't know—darknesses only hinted at under the heavy influence of whiskey—McCoy nevertheless had come closer to seeing the real Jim Kirk than anyone else. Over the years, he had come to occupy a strange space in the younger man's life, somewhere between brother, father, and partner-in-crime. Where everyone else looked at Jim and saw a Starfleet hero, or a reckless space cowboy/playboy/golden boy, McCoy saw an insecure man desperate for validation, for the unconditional love his lonely childhood had noticeably lacked.

And, like it or not, McCoy was Jim's _unconditional_, the one he couldn't get rid of no matter how badly he fucked up. And Jim was his—though he'd never been quite drunk or maudlin enough to admit it out loud.

So now that Jim was sitting there, looking sick and pitiful and being straight with him for once in his life, McCoy couldn't find it in himself to scold.

"You're right, I would have. But I try not to make a habit of kicking puppies."

"What?" By the look on the younger man's face, he had been expecting the usual 'Dammit Jim, you're supposed to take care of yourself, set an example for the rest of the crew, _ad infinitum_.' Good to know he could still change things up.

"Never mind. So how long has it been since you've slept? Any other issues? Headache, nausea?" McCoy picked up the tricorder he had set on his desk. "I would bet my last bottle of Saurian brandy that you're running a fever."

Jim stood abruptly, pushing the tricorder aside. "Just give me a sedative, Bones. I don't need a work-up, I just need to go sleep, and I need some help with that." There was a sharp edge to his voice that caught McCoy off-guard. Looking closer, the doctor noted the tremor in the captain's hands and the deep bruising beneath his eyes, and knew that he couldn't push any further tonight.

"Okay, Jim, but you need to come to me if this doesn't help, or if you feel any worse." McCoy handed over the hypo that he had been quietly preparing. "Give this to yourself when you're back in your room; I don't want to have to drag your sorry, unconscious ass there after the fact. It should get you back on your sleep cycle, and we can take it from there."

Jim turned, looking surprised, and not a little bit relieved.

"But we're talking about this after you've had some rest, all right? This," McCoy waved his hand to indicate Jim's slumping form, again propped against the wall, "is about more than a few sleepless nights. Got it?"

Jim took the hypo and pocketed it. "Loud and clear. Oh, and by the way _Doctor_, it seems I'm still missing your requisition forms for supplies from Attros. Tsk, tsk."

McCoy ignored the sarcasm and walked to his cabinet for some of that brandy—he'd need it to get through another tweezing marathon. "You really must be running a fever if you're worrying about paperwork."

"I have a vested interest in keeping Sickbay well-stocked." Jim finally gave a genuine smile, and it calmed McCoy more than he would like to admit. "Besides, if you wait too long, Spock will have to pay you a personal visit, and I know you don't want that."

"Green-blooded, paper-pushing hobgoblin." McCoy took a small sip of his brandy and readied himself to go back to work on Ensign Wilson. "Jim, seriously, promise me you'll come back if this doesn't help."

"I came here tonight, didn't I?" The whoosh of the Sickbay doors announced Jim's exit. "G'night, Bones."

McCoy couldn't help but notice that he hadn't heard a promise.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you again to my amazing reviewers! I've been having a bit of a shit week, and honestly, a few comments from you guys went a long way to making it tolerable. Because I can't make you real cookies, the early update (earlier than planned, at least) is my way of saying 'thanks' :) **

**On the encouragement of my bf, who has never read fic in his life but likes to pretend like he "gets it," I've set up a Twitter account where I'll post previews of new chapters, estimated post dates, links to fics that I like (not just STXI fandom), maybe articles I read that relate to fandom. So yeah, same handle—frozenlaughter—just hit me up. Let me know in a review if you've got Twitter, so I can follow you too!**

**Okay, I'm training to be a doctor, but only the lame PhD kind, so I rely on the Internet and a lifetime of watching hospital shows for any medical knowledge. So I've been as accurate as I can regarding the actual cycle of a disease like the one I've given Kirk (hopefully you'll see what I mean). Any deviations, we can blame on Space and its disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence.**

**Disclaimer/Warning: If I owned ST, I sure as hell wouldn't be in grad school. Rated T for language, but otherwise I'm keeping it gen. **

* * *

Jim Kirk wasn't avoiding Sickbay, despite what his CMO believed to the contrary and felt he had to express through some really unnecessary PADD messages. Honestly, there was no reason to bring name-calling into this—though Bones' bottomless well of vulgar creativity continued to impress him.

In fact, if he had continued to feel like gum on the bottom of a Klingon's boot, Jim would have gone back. He felt guilty enough about having to lie to Bones about his symptoms; if there was one thing the man had impressed upon him over three years of living together, it was the stupidity and danger of withholding medical information from him because, dammit Jim, he's a doctor, not a mind-reader. Jim supposed that he _could_ have just told the truth, but his mind had locked onto an avoidance course the second he caught a whiff of antiseptic, and no matter how eerily understanding Bones had been, nothing was going to change until he was far away from biobeds and overhead lights and safely under his own covers.

But, surprisingly, a night of sleep under the sedative _had_ helped. Jim woke up feeling decent—comparatively, which still meant "shitty" for the rest of the galaxy—and definitely less achy than the day before. He assumed that meant his fever was dropping, and that he was riding out the tail end of the bug. Definitely no need to get Bones involved now.

And if that wasn't a good enough reason, he now had the whole "Attros situation" to deal with.

And yes, he was air-quoting it in his head.

When Starfleet had first contacted them about the mission, it was presented as a simple supply exchange, with just a little bit of glad-handing thrown in for good measure. Attros was a standard port for starship restocking and, with its blue sand beaches and perfectly temperate weather, a favorite planet for shore leaves. Never since it joined the Federation had there been any indication of hostilities brewing.

Not until the _Enterprise_ had come on the scene, of course.

The Admiralty contacted Jim the morning after his talk with Bones, and he had been in closed-door vid meetings with them ever since. Apparently, the leaders of Attros felt their planet was being taken for granted—had been for years—and reasoned that the best way to get the Federation's attention was to start threatening to cease trade with Starfleet vessels, with a few not-so-subtle hints of violent secession thrown in for good measure. They were demanding to speak with a high-ranking official _in person_, and would accept nothing less—or else.

Because _Enterprise_ had been the closest starship when the Attrosities (Ah-trow-sight-eez, as Spock humorlessly continued to correct him) started making noise, they were tasked with making nice on behalf of the Federation, despite the Admiralty's concern over Jim's relatively untried diplomatic skills. (Personally, Jim felt he was the best candidate for the job. If anyone could understand the need to act-out for attention, it was him—just ask the car at the bottom of an Iowan gully).

But all this was on the DL, strictly confidential, so only Jim and Spock were apprised of the whole "situation." All anyone else knew was that the Captain and his First Officer had been hiding out in a conference room for the past three days, and that all requests for shore leave had been denied. That last part had almost spurred a mini-mutiny, but Bones and Uhura had quelled that with a few well-placed icy glares and hypos.

So, even if Jim _had_ wanted to go get a full work-up in Sickbay, there was no way he could have found the time for it. Every spare moment was spent in planning with Spock, or having thinly veiled consultations with Uhura about the niceties of Attros's diplomatic language. His sleeping and eating were given last priority—right when he needed them _most_—but when you're talking 'Potential Galaxy War,' some things inevitably fall to the wayside. And with Bones locked out of most of the meetings, he had barely caught a glimpse of the man in several days—and conversely, the man had barely caught a glimpse of _him_, and hadn't seen the toll the added stress was taking on his already weakened system.

Jim hadn't had the free time or patience to deal with the rebellion being staged by his own body, not with the possible one on Attros looming, so it caught him by surprise when something inside him declared war the morning the away party was set to beam down.

Jim had been sick before, of course. As a kid, he'd had a wicked case of walking pneumonia that knocked him out for several weeks. He'd had tonsillitis, appendicitis, bronchitis—and so on and so forth. His immune system was just shit, as Bones had discovered with the mud flea vaccine and plenty of subsequent medications; Jim assumed it all had to do with something that started with "Tarsus" and ended with "IV," but he'd never let himself talk about it long enough with the doctor to ask. Bones _knew_, of course, but just what he could glean from a medical file and a few "yes or no" questions. Which is all he _would_ know, if Jim had anything to say about it.

So yes, Jim had been sick before, but never like this.

When the computer automatically brought up the room lights, Jim could barely turn fast enough to avoid aspirating on his own vomit. His head and neck and _entire body_ hurt worse than he thought was possible, and the prospect of moving, if only to get his face out of the puddle of sick on his bed, was too much. He could barely _think_, and for Jim Kirk, that was the most terrifying symptom of all.

_Bathroom_ was the first word to seep into his head, followed slowly by _Bones_.

Unable to lift his head, Jim gathered all of his strength and rolled, making it to the floor. Later, he'd be thankful that his bed wasn't higher, and his desk not closer, but all he could do for the moment was moan into the carpeting.

Everything went blurry and he let the darkness have him for a while.

Eventually the words _bathroom_ and _Bones_ resurfaced, and Jim summoned the strength he didn't know he still had to drag himself across the room. There was an emergency button low on the bathroom wall that sends a signal directly to the CMO's office; Jim laughed for about two weeks after Bones had it installed, insisting that he wasn't in danger of slipping in the shower and breaking his hip, but Bones had just given him an eyebrow. Now that Jim couldn't even fathom being able to get up to the surface of his desk to use the comm, he definitely wasn't laughing.

He threw up twice more on the trip over, every time he jostled his head or tried to move too quickly. He then had to drag himself through the vomit, which would have been incredibly embarrassing if he had been capable of caring at the moment.

Jim started to cry when he hit the tile of the bathroom, the cold an incredible relief on his face and throbbing head. Just a few more feet and—got it.

"Jim?"

If he hadn't been quietly crying already, he would have started to at the sound of Bones' voice. That voice meant relief; Bones would make it better.

"Jim, answer me right now or I'm coming down there to hypo you, whether you need it or not. I'm not in the mood for one of your jokes this morning."

And if the pain in his head wasn't making his breathing catch short, or if he thought he could tolerate the sound of his own voice, Jim probably would have said, "I've fallen and I can't get up." It would have been a classic moment. But instead, all he could manage was a moan.

"I'll be right there. McCoy out."

Again, time got lost in the shuffle and next thing Jim knew, there was a cool hand on the back of his neck.

"Jesus, Jim," came a soft whisper, followed by a few choice curses. Had to be Bones. "You're burning up. I'm going to try to lean you against the wall, all right?"

Jim gave a grunt that was correctly interpreted as, "Oh HELL no."

"I need you to sit up so I can check you out, all right? And so you don't throw up and breathe it in through your nose. Not pretty, man."

Jim gave something between a chuckle and a gag, and let Bones muscle him up to a seated position.

The pain was too much. Every tiny tic sent the nerves around the base of his skull screaming.

"Breathe, Jim, you're hyperventilating. I know, I know, you feel terrible—but believe me, it's impossible to feel worse than you look right now." The cool hands were back, and Jim felt a press of metal into his neck. "I'm giving you a mild pain-reliever, but I'll have to wait to give you something stronger until I know what's going on."

He heard the beeps of the tricorder, and then another soft curse. It sounded like Bones was at the sink, and in a second Jim felt cool cloths around his neck and forehead.

"Your temperature is way too high, and your readings are all out of whack. Why the hell didn't you come back to see me? Why the hell didn't I just break into your quarters?" Bones sounded upset, Jim noted vaguely. He'd have to make sure the older man didn't blame himself.

"'M sry, was okay until now," Jim mumbled. The pain reliever was starting to kick in, and he could tolerate a whisper. He could almost hear Bones roll his eyes.

"Sure you were, Jim. Tell me what hurts."

"Everything." Jim could feel another hypo going in. "Wuzzat?"

"Fever reducer, unless you want me to throw you in the tub and hose you down. Could you be more specific?" The hands continued to roam, check glands and joints.

"Um, neck, head, everything."

"Did you say neck?" Bones sounded distinctly concerned. Jim felt the edge of his shirt being lifted and weakly protested.

"Your stomach is covered in a rash, Jim. I need to run some blood tests, but if this is what I think it is, this is . . . not good."

Jim could hear Bones calling for an anti-gravity stretcher and opened his eyes.

"No, no Sickbay. Treat me here."

Bones just stared. "Are you insane? The type of disease that causes these symptoms, it can be fatal, and we've already let it progress too far. I need to get you isolated and treated immediately, with _my_ equipment in _my_ Sickbay."

Jim bit his lip and shifted against the wall so he was seated taller.

"Bones, I would like nothing more than to pass out for the next week. But I need to beam down today, and I need you to make that happen."

"Jim, Spock can handle a little ass-kissing without you; their egos can deal with having the second-in-command. Attros isn't a life or death situation. This," Bones pointed between the two of them, "can be."

Jim let out a harsh laugh, and instantly regretted it. Choking down dry heaves, he ignored the other man's pointed look but accepted the glass of water from his hand.

"Funny you should say that, because if I'm not in that meeting today—me, _Captain_ Kirk—there's going to be a lot more damaged than a few egos." Jim leaned forward and stared at Bones, trying to convey the gravity of the situation. "If they think I'm slighting them, if they think the _Federation_ is slighting them, they're not going to throw a tantrum; they're going to start a war."

Bones rocked back on his heels and sighed.

"All right, Jim. But if you're going down there, I'm going with you."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: You've got ColtDancer and her prodding PMs to thank for this one **** I never intended to go more than a week between updates, but gah, how time escapes me. I think STers need to start writing worse fic, because then I wouldn't burn so many hours *reading* instead of writing. But thank you to all my reviewers—I'm afraid this is more of a transition chapter than anything, but I already have part of the next chapter written, so it won't be a week this time! I hope you enjoy! **

**Disclaimer/Warning: Yeah, because I'd be writing fic if I owned them. As before, rated for mild potty mouth, but it's all perfectly gen.  
**

* * *

The moment McCoy was satisfied that Jim was safely tucked in bed and under the influence of some serious drugs, he turned on his heel and strode out the door. The younger man would be out for at least an hour, and McCoy had something—_someone_, actually—to take care of. Someone whose logical ass was going to get handed to him, and without Jim's interference.

On entering Sickbay, Nurse Chapel was at his side in an instant, justifiably worried after seeing him take off out of his office in a dead sprint earlier in the morning. She knew McCoy didn't overreact, and he certainly didn't _run_ without just cause—and that cause was usually Captain James T. Kirk.

"How's the Captain," she asked, some worry audible through her professionalism. She was glancing with particular concern at his shirt, which had suffered the indignity of being vomited on when McCoy had picked Jim up to shuttle him back to bed. But, being a doctor as well as the father of a former newborn, he was used to being covered in random body fluids, so a dirty uniform was really the last thing on his mind.

"Run this immediately, with an extra panel for all identified meningeal diseases," he said tersely, handing over a sample of Jim's blood and hoping to convey the gravity of the situation without having to explain further. Christine, bless her, got the unspoken message loud and clear and took the vial. She paused for a moment, clearly debating internally before speaking.

"Sir, may I suggest you make use of the extra shirt you keep in your desk drawer, before you go anywhere else? Non-medical crew members may not be as comfortable with . . . contaminants, as we are in here." Nodding briskly, she turned and went to work without waiting for a response.

Knowing she was right, but mourning the loss of what would have been a great dramatic effect, McCoy stripped off his blue overshirt and pulled on a fresh one, before sitting down heavily to punch his comm.

"Sickbay to Bridge, Commander Spock is needed in the CMO's office immediately. Yesterday, actually. McCoy out."

He was not interested in waiting for responses right now; the image of Jim propped against the bathroom wall, deathly pale and hyperventilating from the pain in his head, was too, too fresh in his mind.

Apparently, though, his rudeness had done the trick, because Spock appeared at his door mere minutes later. McCoy was on him before he even settled in his seat.

"Why in the _hell _didn't you tell me that Jim was this sick?" Spock opened his mouth to answer, but McCoy didn't let him cut in. "And don't give me any bullshit about him saying that he was 'fine,' either. You may be an infuriating sonofabitch, but you're not stupid."

McCoy took a breath, of which Spock tried to take advantage, but was again shut down.

"Do you know where I found him this morning? On the bathroom floor, crying, in his own vomit. Unable to move because he hurt so badly. And half-delirious with fever. That man is about as far from _fine _as you can get, so don't even try to tell me that this just popped up overnight."

Dammit, Jim. McCoy scrubbed at his face, part of his brain still organizing the symptoms and trying to figure out _what he had missed_ when, just a few days ago, Jim had been sitting right where Spock was now. He should have just forced his way into that damn ready room. Or, better yet, shouldn't have let him walk away the first time around. Hindsight, as they say.

"Are you going to let me speak now, Doctor McCoy?" The Vulcan, in typical fashion, arched an eyebrow, but the eyes beneath betrayed a trace of concern. McCoy waved him on.

"Working in such close quarters with him, I, of course, noticed that he was not at his physical peak. I contented myself with close observation, since any attempt on my part to encourage Captain Kirk to seek medical attention was met . . . rather aggressively. His condition didn't seem to be deteriorating, so I felt it unnecessary to incapacitate him and bring him to you—as that is surely the only way he would have come."

McCoy swallowed down the guilt rising up the back of his throat. Getting injured on an away mission was one thing; working yourself to death under the supposedly watchful eyes of your best friend and First Officer was something else entirely. It shouldn't have gotten to this point. And never would again, if he had anything to say about it.

"Well, he's incapacitated now, no thanks to either of us. And now he's spurting some crap about the Attrosities declaring war if he, _specifically_, is not down there. Wouldn't even let me take him out of his room. So please, for the love of God, tell me it's just the fever talking." McCoy looked at Spock in a way that could be called 'imploring,' if you wanted a hypo to the neck, but he knew from the hard look in the other man's eyes that Jim had been telling the truth. Actually, he had known from the look in _Jim's_ fever-bright eyes that Jim was telling to the truth, but he had still been holding out hope—

"That is one of the reasons I did not push Captain Kirk to come to you, Doctor McCoy." McCoy knew that, were he fully human, Spock would be fidgeting right now; undoubtedly, they were both feeling the same rush of uncomfortable guilt. "He is essential to the success of this mission, and the Admiralty has made abundantly clear the consequences of failure on Attros. To understate: They are not favorable."

McCoy dropped his head into his hands, grinding his palms into his eyes to try to stave off the headache he could already feel building. "So there's no way he can get out of this? We can't postpone? Because, and I'm _not_ understating, Jim's life could be on the line here. It goes against every instinct in me to let him go down there; I'm still sorely tempted to do a medical override, the Admiralty and Attros be damned."

Spock stood up swiftly. "You know I would not put the Captain at risk were the circumstances not exigent. This is a moment when our individual concerns are eclipsed by the greater mission of the Federation, and though sending the Captain—Jim—down goes against all of my instincts as well, he must, and so we must help him do what is required."

McCoy bristled at the Starfleet rhetoric, but fortunately for Spock, his response was interrupted by a knock at the door as Christine poked her head in.

"I'm sorry to intrude, Doctor, Commander," she said, acknowledging both men, "but I thought you would want to see these test results immediately." Her face looked strained; McCoy knew his fears had been confirmed.

He stood up and grabbed the paper from her hand, passing it silently to Spock when he was finished scanning it. The other man was the first to speak, looking up from the test results to fix McCoy with a level gaze.

"You will come with us, and do everything you can to help the Captain." Finally, he could hear some urgency in Spock's tone—which was far more discomforting than he had imagined.

"Of course I will, idiot," McCoy mumbled under his breath as he started packing a medkit, already cataloguing the supplies he would need to bring down to the planet with him. Only Jim Kirk would require patching up _before_ away mission. "I'll go shoot him up with everything he can handle. As long as the negotiations don't last too long, the meds should carry him through, though I can't guarantee how functional he'll actually be."

"Understood. Hopefully the Attrosities will be satisfied by his presence, if the bulk of the talking falls to me." Spock paused on his way out the door. "I will be at his side every moment that you are not, Doctor McCoy. I promise you."

McCoy knew the man was sincere and nodded a dismissal, but soon made his own way out of Sickbay and back to the Captain's Quarters. The room was fully dark, for Jim's sake, but he would need some light while administering the meds.

"Lights, 20 percent." When even the minimal brightness made Jim wince and moan in his sleep, McCoy sighed and began to line up his hypos on the edge of the bed.

"This is a damn fool idea," he grumbled, after sweeping the sweat-soaked hair from Jim's forehead and rechecking his temp. Still too high, even after the earlier dose of antipyretics. The younger man's eyelids began to tremble as resurfaced, the blue of his eyes becoming visible even in semi-darkness.

"Mornin', Sunshine. How are you feeling?" Hopefully Jim was still too dazed to hear the tremor in his voice.

"Aghgoway'onessmushblagh," Jim gargled, followed by something impossibly more incoherent.

McCoy chuckled darkly; this was going to be a very, very long day.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Ack, I would have had this out sooner, but diplomacy and I don't get along. Just ask my mother ;) And to make up for the delay, I made the chapter extra-long!**

**Thank you, all my wonderful reviewers, and especially to the lovely ColtDancer for her support and MUSHy advice. Sorry to those of you who were looking for a Jim!HoseDown—not to be confused with a Jim!HoeDown, or a Jim!HoDown—but maybe one will appear in the next chapter. And I would just like to establish that I love Jim, I do! I sympathize with him! He just has to earn it, dammit. **

**We've got some POV switching in this chapter, which I hope I made clear enough. **

**Disclaimer/Warnings: If I owned them, Jim would have been constantly beat down through the movie . . . oh wait. Rated for language.**

* * *

"Goddamn beach bums, if they make one wrong move I swear I'm gonna—"

"Bones?" Jim heard his friend's grumbling, felt the strong, familiar arm around his waist, and vaguely noted that somewhere far, far below him, his legs were moving. But he couldn't see. Anything. "_Bones?!_"

"The stims are kicking in," he heard someone say. The person supporting him paused, shifting more of Jim's weight over to him and placing a cool hand on his forehead. "Shh, Jim, look at me. I'm right here, you're okay."

"Can't see—I can't—" He was breathing too fast, he knew, but he couldn't control it. The wash of panic was overwhelming him.

He felt a hand, much warmer than the one on his face, curl lightly around his wrist, and calm slowly leeched through the tight press of fear that had a hold on his mind and chest. "Captain, you must calm down. Open your eyes. You will see that everything is fine."

_Open my—? _"Oh." He blinked once, twice against the bright lights and clean steel around him. The transporter room. But he'd been in his quarters, last he remembered. On the floor of the bathroom, in fact. "How did I get here?"

Bones—who was, in fact, holding him up—shot Spock a look that, even dazed, Jim could interpret as "I told you you were out of your Vulcan mind," which Spock pointedly ignored.

"You walked, Captain, with the help of Doctor McCoy and myself. We are preparing to beam down to meet the Attrositien delegation."

"Ah, right." That still didn't answer his question, but as his mind began to grip on reality, flashes of memory returned to him. A dark room, the unmistakable hiss of hypos. He turned to Bones, unsure. "I was sick?"

Bones sighed and avoided his eyes. Strange. "You _are_ sick, Jim. Very sick. And very, very drugged."

Well, that explained why he could barely feel . . . anything. "Then what am I doing here?"

At this, the doctor looked up sharply. "You don't remember?" He turned to the First Officer, furious. "He can't even remember the goddamn mission, Spock, how do you expect him to go down and put on his best negotiator face?"

'Negotiator face'? The Attrosities.

"This was a terrible idea; come on, Jim, I'm ending this now. You're coming to Sickbay with me."

Life or death.

Jim pulled away from Bones and used the wall to steady himself.

"No, I got this," he said, willing his mind to sharpen through the cloud of drugs. "Just took me a second, 'sall. What did you give me, anyway? You've had me on the good stuff before, but wow, I feel like . . . a balloon."

Bones and Spock quirked eyebrows at him in unison, but it took the laugh a good thirty seconds to travel from his brain to his mouth. Not a good sign.

"I gave you the _really_ good stuff—a direct nerve block at several key points. A boatload of stims. And pretty much every other drug you're not allergic to; your blood could probably start its own pharmacy." Bones looked like he could use his own nerve block as he clenched and unclenched his fist. "It should be enough to get you through a few hours of talks. I can probably redose you once, but I'm already pushing your system to its limit. The sooner you can get this thing wrapped up, the better."

"I don't feel half-bad right now, though. Always the miracle worker, Bones." Jim turned to walk onto the transporter pad, but his body just . . . kept turning. And somehow he ended up on the floor.

"Dammit, Jim!" Bones snapped as he hauled the younger man to his feet. "You don't feel 'half-bad' because you don't _feel_ anything. If you could, you wouldn't even be conscious. So take it easy—you're on borrowed time here, and the more you push yourself now, the harder you're going to crash when these drugs wear off. Let Spock do most of the talking; you just sit there and look pretty. You should be used to that."

The laugh only took twenty seconds to come out this time.

Even though logic told him that Bones was wrong, that there was no way he was _that _sick, a part of him was deeply unsettled. He felt all wrong, like he was watching everything happen from somewhere outside of his body. It reminded him of the time he was caught in a rockslide on one of their away missions; his left leg had been utterly crushed at the shin, he could see bone and muscle, but could only observe it with a kind of cold detachment. Bones had later explained that he had been experiencing a combination of shock and crushed nerve endings, but it still didn't make the situation any easier to process.

There was silence, and Bones and Spock were looking at him expectantly. Shit. He was supposed to say something.

"Sorry, I must have spaced out there. We ready?" Jim was shocked to realize that Uhura had joined them on the platform. She was eyeing him strangely, and he wondered if she had been apprised of the situation, or if she would now think he was a stoner as well as an "impetuous womanizing drunk." He'd have to ask later.

"Ready if you are, Captain." Spock was, as usual, straight-backed and calm, while Bones was white-knuckling the medkit in his hand.

"Ready as I'll ever be. Energize."

* * *

McCoy was just waiting for the moment the drugs worse off.

He was situated across the table and several seats down from Jim, but he still had a clear view of the younger man. And he had been watching him like a hawk.

The negotiations—hell, who were they kidding, these weren't negotiations. This was a plain old gripe fest. The first hour had been filled by the droning voice of the Chief Attrositie—a race which, by the by, bore a striking resemblance to the opossums McCoy used to see on the side of the road back home in Georgia—listing his people's grievances with the Federation. Jim had been staring _through_ the speaker the entire time, but to the unknowing eye, he seemed to be paying rapt attention.

The second, third, and fourth hours had seen a handful of Attrosities—each worse than the one before—stand up and list their demands. McCoy had faded out somewhere between "less oversight and regulation of the tourist industry" and "an unlimited supply of Terran coconuts." He was sure he had heard something about Orion women and ponies in there too.

It never ceased to amaze him how, despite differences of language, culture, and even simple biology, greed seemed to be a universal instinct. Even if the Attrosities only cared about having more control over who they could turn away from their orbit—apparently racism was another one of those universal instincts—they figured they'd get away with as much as they could while they had the upper-hand.

Though McCoy was beginning to doubt just how 'upper' their hand was. Four hours of speechifying and not a single mention of the words "secession" or "war." In fact, the tenor of the talks was about as far from aggressive as he could imagine. Annoying, yes, but not aggressive.

"And this brings us to why you are here, Captain Kirk." The Chief Attrositie was back up, and sounding quite bored.

McCoy winced as Jim jumped about a foot in the air at being finally addressed, then grabbed his head. Crap, there go the meds.

"If you do not grant us these demands—acting, as you are, as fully-invested representatives of the Federation—we will have no choice but to commence a hostile secession. Immediately."

Jinxed it.

If someone had dropped a pin, McCoy would have heard it. Automatically his glance turned to Jim.

Jim, who appeared to be biting through his bottom lip, if the slight welling of blood there was any indication. Who was clearly trying to stand up, leaning heavily on the table with trembling arms. Who was, in no way, going to stay conscious for much longer.

McCoy awkwardly leaned forward to try to catch Spock's eye, but the Vulcan, sitting directly across from their captain, was already in motion.

"We require time to evaluate your demands," Spock announced while pushing back his chair. "You must be willing to extend us the courtesy of a private discussion, after we have so patiently heard your case."

McCoy didn't know much about diplomacy, but he was pretty sure that wasn't it.

Thankfully, Uhura and her unrelenting sense of intergalactic tact stood up and tried to smooth things over in the Attrosities' own language. Or at least, that's what McCoy assumed she did, because soon after, the Chief Attrositie stood as well and declared a 30 Terran-minute recess, indicating that a small anteroom was available for their "private discussion."

McCoy was out of his seat and by Jim's side in an instant. In the bustle following Spock's announcement, the younger man had given up his attempt to rise and was slumped forward on the table.

"Hey, Jim? You with me, kid?" McCoy gently tapped the side of a very flushed cheek, and could feel the fever burning through his friend.

"No," came the soft reply, but it was good enough for him.

With Spock's help, he hoisted Jim from the chair and half-dragged him to the room the Chief Attrositie had pointed out. He dimly noticed Uhura staying behind, probably to put a little more diplomatic grease in the gears, but he quickly forgot about her when Jim became deadweight in his arms.

McCoy managed to keep his balance, but was grateful for Spock's assistance in lowering the unconscious man to the ground. Luckily they had made it out of the Attrosities' sight in time; he was afraid to think of what would happen if the other group knew the Federation's chief negotiator was down for the count.

"Dammit, Jim," he grumbled as his tricorder kicked back a set of very poor vital signs, and then raised his voice to address Spock. "The meds wore off, obviously, but his body won't take a dose that high again. Once—_if_—I get him back on his feet, I don't know how long he'll actually stay there."

"Do the best you can, Doctor McCoy. Now that the Attrosities appear to have finished with their demands, we can try to reach a solution as swiftly as possible."

McCoy paused, looking up and away from Jim's too-pale face. "Do you think they're serious, Spock? I mean, they don't strike me as the 'hostile-secession' type; they spend most of their days lounging on the beach and sipping cocktails."

Spock, to his credit, restrained himself from giving an eyebrow. "It would not do to judge by appearances, Doctor. However, I feel I must agree with you in this case. From what was communicated to us by the Admiralty, I was led to expect far less . . ."

"Bullshit?" McCoy supplied, and this time, the eyebrow did go up.

"In less vulgar terms, but yes. I am finding it difficult to take their posturing very seriously, but as the Admiralty regard them as a serious threat, we must as well." Spock sounded conflicted—for Spock, that is.

McCoy sighed as he injected Jim with another round of stims. "Did you ever hear of 'CYA,' Spock?"

"No, I am afraid I am unfamiliar with the term." The eyebrow was half-mast.

"CYA: Cover Your Ass. I guarantee you it's what the Admiralty have been doing this whole time. Sure, it was possible these idiots were ready to go rogue at the drop of a hat, but anyone with half-a-brain can see they're just strutting to strut. And the Admiralty knew it. But wanted all the records to show that _they had warned us_, just in case something went down." McCoy suddenly felt very, very tired. "And of course they pick Jim, the captain in the 'Fleet with the most to prove, with the least experienced crew, knowing that he'd—_we'd_—be the only ones to take it this seriously. And who would be a perfect scapegoat if things went pear-shaped."

McCoy glanced up Spock, whose eyes now radiated a cold fury. "Why did I not consider this scenario?"

"Because it's politics, Spock. And if there's one thing politics isn't, it's logical."

"Call their bluff," croaked a voice from below him; McCoy was glad he didn't have a hypo in his hand at the moment, or he probably would have stabbed out on reflex.

"Jesus, Jim, you scared me. How're you feeling, kid?" McCoy helped the younger man up into a seated position against the wall and gave him a cup of water to sip. His color was still bad, and according to the tricorder, his temperature too high, but at least he was conscious.

"'S like poker." Jim's voice was badly slurred, and his eyes refused to focus. Not good. At all. He grimaced as McCoy shot two more hypos into him, but the doctor was secretly relieved at the reaction. "They're just bluffin'. Gotta call 'em on it."

Leave it to Jim to return to consciousness with a solution in hand.

"And how do you propose I do that, Captain?" Spock knelt so that he was eye level with Jim and quirked his head. Jim let out a gruff laugh that changed halfway into a moan.

"You? You're a terrible poker player, Spock. Shame such a great poker face goes to waste." McCoy was glad to hear that Jim's voice was getting stronger, and moved to help when the other man appeared to be getting to his feet.

"My apologies, Captain, but you do not appear to be in any condition to be 'calling their bluff,' as you say." Spock's voice betrayed concern as he reached out to steady his friend.

Swaying and gulping down a dry heave, Jim got his bearings, then straightened his shoulders.

"Do I need to remind you who the reigning Enterprise Poker Tournament champion is?" Jim gave a small grin and began to walk forward, stumbling only once. "Next to Sulu, these guys are amateurs."

McCoy just shrugged at Spock, and followed closely on Jim's heels, a hypo tucked up each sleeve, ready to catch him if he fell.

* * *

_Where in the hell am I?_

Jim Kirk glanced around the room in confusion, but immediately regretted turning his head. Bad, bad idea.

When the world stopped spinning, it resolved itself into something that looked like a reception, with tiny, furry waitresses and tiny, furry creatures in dress uniforms milling about.

_Attrosities_.

The word came to him, and Jim started to remember, vaguely. He was supposed to be negotiating with them. Right. So why was he standing in the corner? Why was it cocktail hour? And how did he even get here?

Just then, a paw grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously.

"May I say, Captain Kirk, that I have never seen such a brilliant display of diplomatic rhetoric in all my 200 years." The grey-haired Attrositie dropped his voice lower. "I probably should be upset at you out-maneuvering us, but as a former professor of xenolinguistics, I can't help but admire the beauty of your argument."

And with that, the creature left.

Something very strange was going on.

_What in the hell_—

A noxious, burning smell assaulted him and he gagged. Panicked, he looked around for the fire, but no one else seemed to notice a thing.

Then his left hand went numb. A glass, which he hadn't even realized he was holding, went crashing to the ground.

_Bones_.

As he crumbled, Jim heard a very familiar yell.

And if he had stayed conscious for just a moment longer, he would have seen a doctor—not an athlete—leaping over a table and two Attrosities to get to him.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Holy carp, did real life ever get in the way. I never meant to go so long without an update, so props to everyone still hanging in there, and thanks to all my reviewers for the impetus to actually write this damn thing. And special thanks, as usual, to ColtDancer, for bribing me with morsels of fic ;) I had originally intended this to be the last chapter, and a long one at that, but I hit a block after where I stop for this chapter, so I opted to go a little shorter for the sake of being able to post. Forgive me?  
**

**Warnings for blatant misuse of a fountain, and blatant use of swear words.**

**Disclaimer: I am disclaimed.  
**

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* * *

  
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McCoy had _thought_ Jim couldn't get himself into any more trouble.

He'd thought that, after pulling out another Jim-Kirk-Spectacular and knocking an entire planet of furry blowhards down to size while higher than a kite in zero-grav, the man would be docile enough to _stay against the wall_ where McCoy had propped him until he was fetched.

And he'd thought that the last dose of meds would last until the end of this ridiculous reception, which he would have skipped altogether had not Uhura insisted that Attrositean etiquette demanded the presence of the entire negotiating party, _or else_. While McCoy was pretty much _done_ with the Attrosities and their "or elses," his nerves were too badly frayed to put up much of a fight.

Which he now regretted, badly, as he learned that he had been wrong on all three counts.

Because not ten minutes into the schmoozing, something gold drifted into McCoy's peripheral vision.

And then something glass crashed to the floor.

And then McCoy turned just in time to catch Jim's eyes before the blue rolled back into white, and his best friend folded in on himself, hit the ground, and began to seize.

"Jim!"

In seconds flat, McCoy was by his side with a leap that would have made his Academy phys ed instructor proud. He swept the glass away from Jim's trembling form and stripped off his own outer shirt to tuck under the younger man's head. With one eye on his patient, he quickly loaded a hypo, his brain flying through memorized lists of drug interactions and allergies; the last thing he wanted to do was to overload the already drugged-up man, whose finicky system rejected medication on a good day, but he had to get the seizure stopped.

The hypo went in, and blessedly, Jim stilled. McCoy tried to shift the unconscious man on his side, but he discovered his own hands were now shaking violently.

"Spock, a little help here?" he barked, assuming that Spock was right behind him. Sure enough, a pair of steady hands reached over to help tip and gently hold Jim.

"He may vomit," McCoy instructed. "Just make sure he doesn't choke." He turned away to get his tricorder, and blinked hard against the image of Jim, shaking uncontrollably, that was seared on his retinas. Broken bones, bleeding wounds—hell, even massive internal injuries; Jim had landed in his Sickbay with them all, but this was new, this had reached out and secured a firm grip on McCoy's gut, and he was having trouble breathing around the pressure of fear. Seizures were unpredictable, disturbing—and possibly indicative of something much worse going on inside the patient's brain, his _captain's_ brain, the part of his friend that, past smirking blue eyes and ruffled blonde hair, made him _who he was_, essentially and completely. And the implications of any degree of brain damage? McCoy didn't want to go there, not now, not ever.

Pulling himself back to the present, McCoy calibrated his tricorder and turned back to scan the still-unconscious man. He purposely avoided Spock's gaze; the Vulcan may not wear his emotions on his sleeve like the rest of them, but his eyes could still betray a deep fear that McCoy was not prepared to confront. A beep from his tricorder interrupted his thoughts.

"Shit." An understatement, really. "His fever is so far beyond the realm of 'safe' . . . it's likely what caused the seizure, we need to bring his temperature down _immediately_."

Spock gently laid Jim flat and reached for his own communicator. "I will have Scotty beam us up, with a medical team waiting."

McCoy shook his head roughly. "We can't risk him seizing again during transport; I don't even want to _think_ about what the consequences of that would be. We have to bring down the fever before we can consider it, but I can't give him any more of the meds I have with me, he's already riding the edge of overdose."

As McCoy ran through possible solutions in his head, he heard a throat clear behind him. Looking around, he realized that the three of them were ringed by Attrosities, all of whom showed a mixture of curiosity and alarm on their tiny rat-like faces. Even unconscious, Jim attracted an audience.

"May I offer you a glass of water? Perhaps it will help revive Captain Kirk." McCoy did all he could to stop himself from snorting in the delegate's face; no need to start another diplomatic shitstorm.

"Thank you, but—" Water. That was it. He needed water, but lots more of it.

"Do you have a bigger . . . container? Like a tub? Or—do I remember seeing a fountain on the way in?" Even Spock had a blank look on his face.

"Well yes, in the Grand Lobby, but—"

Without a word, McCoy scooped up his friend—and dammit, Jim was far too light, they would have to have a chat after all this was over—and took off in the direction he _hoped_ was the entrance.

And there it was. An ornate fountain, with a rather extraordinary pattern of jets and a waist-deep pool. Perfect.

Pausing to awkwardly dip a hand into the water—anything too cool might send Jim into shock—he breathed out in relief when he found it lukewarm. He then silently prayed that no one in the delegation had a camera.

"You owe me for this, Jim," McCoy grumbled as he swung his long legs over the fountain's edge and immersed both himself and the man in his arms in the water. It was old-fashioned, but absent of any other options, a good soaking was the only way to bring down the ill man's body temperature. McCoy just hoped it worked quickly, because Jim couldn't last with a fever that high for very long without lasting effects.

As he cupped some water over the younger man's hair, McCoy berated himself internally. He should have been watching Jim closer; he should have fought against their staying for the reception; he should _never_ have authorized the trip down in the first place, potential interplanetary war be damned. Whenever Jim came back from away missions in need of patching up, McCoy could lecture himself into some sort of peace-of-mind, but this time, it had been on _him_ to put a check on his friend's masochistic hero complex. And he had failed, miserably. There was no one else to blame for Jim's current condition—burning up and looking pitifully young and pale as he _soaked in a fountain_—but McCoy.

Again, McCoy had the displeasure of being pulled from his thoughts by a clearing throat. But this time, it was Spock, leaning as far as he could over the edge of the fountain without actually getting in and looking at the water with a distaste akin to a cat's.

"What is the Captain's status, Doctor McCoy? I have contacted Mr. Scott, and a medical team is standing by." And the Attrosities are getting agitated, he added silently with a flick of his eyes. True enough, the delegation was ringing the fountain and looking increasingly more worried and restless; probably thought they'd killed a Starfleet captain, McCoy thought to himself. Serves them right to suffer with that for a bit.

"He's not coming back around," McCoy told the First Officer, "and his fever has barely dropped." The doctor had his fingers wrapped around his friend's pale wrist, and had noted with concern a progressively weakening pulse. "I don't think we can wait any longer, though. We'll have to chance the transporter."

Spock nodded swiftly and pulled out his communicator. "Two to beam up, Mr. Scott." He turned to McCoy. "Lieutenant Uhura and I will stay here to ensure 'diplomatic cooperation.'" McCoy could almost see the air quotes. "Please keep me apprised of the Captain's status?"

McCoy nodded grimly, and shut his eyes on instinct as he felt himself begin to dissolve.

Moments later, he opened his eyes on the Transporter Room, a drowned-rat Jim now heavy in his arms. Scotty was clearly startled by their appearance, and not a little upset by the puddle they were making on his precious transporter pad, but he was professional enough to keep his thoughts to himself.

Chapel, however, appeared predictably unruffled as she brought the anti-grav stretcher up to the two men and listened to McCoy's rundown of the situation as they rushed—and in his case, squelched—to Sickbay. She also noticed the doctor's subtly shaking hands, and not-so-lightly suggested that he step back to change clothes while she got the Captain into dry ones of his own and onto a biobed.

McCoy initially resisted, but deflated under his nurse's sharp gaze.

"Christine, he shouldn't have—I should never have let him go down there."

Chapel pinned him with an even fiercer stare, and pointed at his office. "Leonard, I'm sure the Captain will have something to say about that, so go get yourself out of those wet things, take a deep breath and a sip of coffee, and then come out here and fix him."

Right. He could fix this. He had to fix this.


	7. Chapter 7

**Quick A/N: Last chapter! Lots of POV switches! Enjoy!**

* * *

Leonard McCoy did _not_ like to feel helpless. Truly, it was one of the reasons he became a doctor—to avoid The Waiting Room, the knuckle-cracking stasis and endless swirl of over-thought 'woulda-coulda-shouldas' that come with the inability to take action when someone you love is in danger.

He's waited a lot as the _Enterprise_'s CMO; that much was true. But during the tense period before an away team was beamed back up, he could at least prepare so that he wouldn't waste a single moment. So that when a crew member—and almost inevitably the Captain—appeared in his Sickbay, no time would be lost to hesitation. McCoy considered it _waiting with a purpose_.

The few times he had faced situations that he was powerless to remedy, even after putting his heart and soul into finding the cure—his father, his marriage—he had come away a broken man.

Smaller failures—no, not smaller, but not _family_—were easier to process. Of course he felt acutely every loss, every death he couldn't prevent, but he had learned to use whiskey and books to dull the pain: whiskey for the short-term, and books for the long, to ensure that he knew what had gone wrong, could stop history from repeating itself.

But now he found himself again trying to beat back the waves of powerlessness that threatened to take him under; because even though he was light years away from Georgia, the man lying in front of him—the man possibly _dying_ in front of him—was family. And despite being surrounded by the most advanced technology and medications, McCoy had done all he could as a doctor, and was left with no other option but to wait and worry, as a friend, as a brother. Like he so often found himself doing when it came to Jim Kirk.

Carefully, he reached over and peeled the damp compresses from Jim's forehead and neck—old-fashioned medicine again prevailed after near-overdose levels of antipyretics had failed to make a dent in the unrelenting fever. The compresses only had a minimal effect, but between them, the biobed's cooling function, and the IV fluids that were pumping through his system, the sick man's temperature had dropped to a slightly less dangerous level, and McCoy would take what he could get. They also made him—a man unaccustomed to empty hands—feel like he was _doing_ something, even if it was just wringing out cloths.

McCoy was lost in thought, staring blankly at the brain scans and bio-readings hovering above Jim's head, when a slim, manicured hand placed a fresh bowl of water at his side.

"I can take over if you'd like to get some sleep, Doctor; it _is_ my job, and you look to be just steps from landing on one of these beds yourself." Chapel deftly disposed of the old water and compresses as she spoke, and summoned up a new stack of cloths. She wasn't meeting his eyes, but McCoy could see the worry in the tenseness of her shoulders. He knew she saw it as her special duty to look after him as CMO, to gently step in when he was pushing himself too far; but he also knew that, until Jim was out of the woods, sleep was out of the question.

"I'm where I need to be, Christine," he said, trying to keep the rough edge of exhaustion out of his voice. "But thank you."

She nodded, giving a sad but understanding smile. "Can I get you anything?"

McCoy shook his head and heard her walk off, but was only half-surprised when she reappeared with a blanket and a mug of coffee minutes later. Chapel draped the blanket around McCoy's shoulders and left a hand resting on his arm; unconsciously, he leaned into it for support.

"He'll be all right, Len."

"I know. But dammit if he isn't going to make me suffer first."

* * *

_Where is it, where is it, where is the goddamn hypo with the—_

"He's stopped seizing, Doctor."

_Thank God_.

"Thank God. I thought we had him stabilized—what the hell happened?"

'_What the hell happened' is that you waited too long, you idiot. You let a man that sick go without proper treatment for nearly a day, what in the _hell_ were you thinking._

"He was, but his fever just shot back up, and now his BP is bottoming out!"

_Shitshitshit 107, compromised brain function, need to get him rehydrated . . ._

"Push more IV fluids, saline and wide spectrum antibiotics. We've already flooded him with everything else he can handle."

_Don't you mean '_I _flooded him with enough drugs to stun a Hengrauggi in its tracks' . . ._

"His sat levels are way down. Sir, he's not getting enough air, we need to intubate."

_Christ, no, I can't do that, what if he never—_

"I don't want to tube him, Chris."

— _and I'd be the one who'd have to make the call, like with Dad, but worse, because Jim wouldn't be able to tell me—_

"But Len—"

_Come on Jim, don't do this, not now._

"Just give it a minute."

_Please, I don't want to do this._

"Sir, it'll just be temporary. His system is overtaxed; it needs some help."

_If that goddamn monitor would just shut up for a second . . ._

"I know. I know that. But still—dammit, Jim. Get me an intubation kit. And turn off those stupid alarms, I can't think."

_How was he supposed to do his job with all this _noise—

"Yes Doctor."

But the alarms were still blaring.

Very, very loudly.

"What in the—"

And suddenly Leonard McCoy was wide-awake, his head smacked off the edge of the biobed by a flailing arm. An arm that belonged to one Jim Kirk, who was conscious and panicking, his heart rate skyrocketing and setting off the alarms. He was clawing at his throat, fighting against the tube that McCoy had so desperately wanted to avoid using, and had been trying to look past during his vigil—as if ignoring it would make it go away.

"Jim! Jim, look at me!" McCoy gripped the man's wrists with one hand and placed the other on his still-too-warm cheek, trying to get him to focus. Jim's bloodshot eyes settled somewhere far to the left, but it was better than nothing. "I had to put a tube down your throat to help you breathe. I can take it out now that you're awake, but you need to calm down."

A lump caught in McCoy's throat as he watched his best friend try to process what he had just said. There was deep confusion in his eyes, a brand of fear McCoy had seen countless times in his disoriented patients, but would be happy never to have to see again. And for a man who could go from fast asleep to command-ready in 2.3 seconds, waking up with absolutely no bearings had to be especially disconcerting. He set Jim's shaking hands down on the blanket and covered them with both of his.

"You're still pretty sick, Jim, so not a lot is going to make sense right now. But I've got you, all right? You don't have to worry, because I've got you."

McCoy chose to ignore the quiet sniffle he heard behind him and adjusted the biobed so that his friend was propped up closer to sitting. He was glad to see that the monitors were showing his breathing and heart rate leveling off.

"You should be fine breathing on your own now, but so help me James Kirk, if you scare me like that I again I'll—" The younger man—who looked particularly young right now—just blinked tiredly at him, and McCoy sighed. "Fine, I'll save the lecture for another day. Now on three, I need you to cough for me, Jim. Can you do that?"

To his relief, he got a wobbly but recognizable nod in response.

"All right then. One, two, and three." Jim gagged as the tube was extracted, and then keened in pain as the movement jarred his sensitive head. McCoy had long gotten over his discomfort with the messier side of medicine, but he still gave mental shudders at procedures like extubation. He looked around for something to wipe Jim's face with, and without being summoned, Chapel appeared at his side with a bowl and a towel, and he silently thanked the Universe for sending such competence his way. She rubbed circles around the Captain's back as he got control of his breathing and McCoy cleaned him up, but she soon looked up at McCoy with a slight frown.

"He's sweated through his gown again; it's soaked. I can feel him shivering."

McCoy kicked himself for not noticing earlier. "I'll grab a pair of scrubs from the stores. You know how he hates waking up in a gown, and they're too damn flimsy anyway."

Jim was never one for modesty, except when it came to Sickbay. Even if there was nothing under there the entire crew hadn't seen before—now _that_ was a good story—one of the man's first demands upon waking up was always "Clothes, Bones. _Real_ clothes." But McCoy could understand that; vulnerability was one of the few things the 'invincible' Captain Kirk did poorly.

Chapel, professional as always, helped him with the change, and as he settled Jim back down and reached for the sedative that would smooth away some of those pain lines, McCoy saw a similar scene playing before his eyes. Of another time, on a very different day, when he had stood in an _Enterprise_ storage closet trying to shimmy an unhelpful kid out of his cadet reds and into something less conspicuous; when he began to seriously question his own sanity, and wonder at what point James T. Kirk became someone he couldn't leave behind; before he knew that his decision to sneak his impossible, impetuous friend onboard would set in motion a series of events that would change all of their lives, incalculably.

McCoy retucked the blanket under Jim's arms and pretended he didn't feel a wave of paternalism go through him. He growled in spite of himself, glad Chapel had gone to check on another patient.

"Dammit, kid, get better so I can go back to chasing you around. You're killing my bad reputation."

He sat back down—the biobed's monitors always in clear view—and moved to put a fresh compress on his friend's forehead. As he smoothed down the cloth and pulled back, his hand was caught weakly by one of Jim's. Still bloodshot, the man's eyes were more focused, and the recognition McCoy saw there loosened the tight bands around his chest more effectively than any clean brain scan could.

"'ones, I—" Jim managed before the sedative fully hit him and his eyes fluttered closed.

"I know, Jim. I know." McCoy didn't let go for the rest of the night.

* * *

The first time he woke up, there were alarms. And he was choking.

But Bones was there, and he fixed it.

Jim wouldn't remember that day later. Nor the ones after that, when a simple shift in his sleep made him wake up crying in pain and grabbing at his head; when his fever peaked again, and Bones picked him up off the floor when he tried to fight his way out of Sickbay; or when he sat up spouting what everyone thought was gibberish—scaring the hell out of Bones, who was still nervous about brain damage—until Uhura identified it as a dialect of Andorian.

Bones told him those stories later, _much_ later, when enough time had passed that they were both able to laugh a bit at the whole situation.

No, for what felt like forever, he just faded in and out of dreams, marked by the sound of soft voices and the feel of caring hands. Mostly he dreamt of away missions, ones that took him and his crew through burning deserts or left him at the mercy of Klingon torturers. But though he could feel the heat, the pain throbbing through him, he didn't really mind those dreams; they normally signaled the return of the caring hands and the soft hiss that meant sleep would be easier for a while.

The dreams that stuck with him long after actually involved no pain, no feeling—just him on the Bridge, alone, completely alone with the blackness of space opening up before him, a terrifying void into which he screamed, silently. He would stay trapped in those dreams, far far away from the soothing touches that let him know there was _someone else_, waiting for something to make a sound. Even the imagined weight of solitude was, for Jim Kirk, crushing.

Eventually, the deserts didn't burn quite so hot, the silences didn't last for so long, and Jim felt a fog begin to lift.

And he opened to eyes to a very bright penlight.

"Hey, hey, stop it." Jim didn't recognize his own voice, rough with disuse and thirst, and he was surprised by how difficult it was to lift his hands to push the offending light away. His head hurt like . . . well, like something Scotty would have a word for, and the light felt like it was piercing back into his brain.

"Jim? Are you with us?" As the spots in his vision dissolved, a very relieved—and a very scruffy—CMO took shape in front of him.

"Where else would I be?" _Where_ he was, he gathered, was Sickbay, but trying to come up with the _why_ did nothing but worsen his headache. He opened his mouth to ask, but choked on the dryness in his throat, signaling Chapel to appear out of _nowhere_ with a cup of ice chips. How the hell did she do that?

Truly, ice had never tasted so good; good enough that he let Chapel handle the spoon for him without complaint. His throat hurt like hell, and he felt like the ice melted the instant it touched his lips. So, definitely a fever. Jim tried to crane his neck to check his temperature, but no, the pain that shot up into his skull told him that was a bad idea. Instead, he looked back at Bones, who was hovering. As usual.

"You look like shit. Anyone told you that?" Jim croaked, and was rewarded with a McCoy-exclusive Snort-of-Disbelief. It was true though; the man looked like he hadn't slept, showered, or shaved in a good week. He was surprised Chapel hadn't hosed the doctor down long before now.

"You're not looking so hot there yourself, sunshine. Though you look a sight better than you have been." Bones put on his serious doctor face, and Jim sighed inwardly; no more joking, and unless he wanted to see those frown lines deepen, definitely no asking 'So what the hell happened?'

"How are you feeling? On the Kirk scale of 1 to 10—1 being bullshit and 10 being 'I could use a mild painkiller, Bones'—how bad do you feel?" Jim could have objected to that, but he was suddenly too tired to argue. The words got stuck thickly somewhere between his brain and mouth.

Instead he gaped, stupidly, like a fish. He ached.

"Jim?" Bones looked distinctly worried, and dammit, there was that frown—

He fought to remember if he was supposed to be saying something.

"Sorry, sorry, 'm tired." The words slurred out as the pull of sleep got progressively stronger. He watched a blurry McCoy adjust a few dials on the monitors and load a hypo.

"It's all right, Jim, just rest, we'll try to talk next time. You've got a lot of healing left to do."

As his eyes closed, Jim told himself to ask, when they had that talk, exactly what he was healing _from_. Because damned if he knew.

* * *

It wasn't really the opportune time to question Bones when he next woke up, considering he just ended up puking himself back to sleep.

Delighted that he was sitting up and vaguely coherent, the nurses had fed him some sort of enriched broth, but his body rejected it almost immediately. Of course.

"Sorry, Jim, it's the antibiotics," he heard Bones say over the sound of his own panting. "A side effect—we've got you on the strongest strain possible. I'll reduce them once we finally beat that fever, but until then, you're stuck with the IV."

Jim thought, but couldn't say _because of all the retching_, that he had been under the impression that medicine was supposed to make you feel better, not worse. Though he had had enough adverse reactions to drugs to know that wasn't true.

He begged to be left alone in his misery, but he could feel Bones and the nurses watching him from just a few feet away. They had outright refused to pull the damn privacy curtain, and Jim wondered vaguely if that counted as insubordination. Then his mind drifted to mutiny, and pirates, and what he would look like with an eye-patch, until the next bout of nausea gripped him.

After the half-hour mark, he was shivering with fever and his head ached so badly that he could barely open his eyes—even in the blessedly dim light of the gamma shift—so he resorted to curling on his side and propping the basin under his cheek. Not like he had anything left to throw up; it was all just dry heaves.

Until it wasn't.

"Bones," he rasped, trying not to look at the red streak in the bowl. "I think maybe I need you."

Closing his eyes, he felt the basin being pulled away from him.

"Tore up your damn throat. Of course you did. You never do things halfway, do you." He could hear Bones mumbling above him, and then felt a hand on his forehead. "Sorry kid, I didn't want to, but I need to knock you out before you do any serious damage."

"But I just woke up," Jim protested weakly, not even bothering to open his eyes; he knew that tone meant 'lost cause.'

"You'll have plenty of time to be awake and bored later, believe me. Anyway, you look too pitiful now to effectively harass the nurses. Give it some time."

Jim felt the sting of the hypo—though Bones was going easier on him with those, if he wasn't mistaken—and didn't bother to retort, settling for a menacing grumble as he felt the blanket being tucked back around his shoulders.

As he drifted off, he heard a chair being dragged across the floor.

"Doctor—Len, I can watch him. Please, get some sleep, or at least go somewhere other than Sickbay. You know he's going to be just fine, he's through the worst of it now." That was Chapel, but her tone was softer than Jim was used to.

"I keep waiting for those damn alarms to go off again." Bones' voice sounded tired, ancient. "I don't think I'll be able to rest until _he_ can without me drugging him to high heaven."

"Okay, but the offer still stands. It always does."

"Thanks, Chris."

Jim smiled inwardly and released his tenuous hold on consciousness, knowing that he wasn't the only one being looked after tonight.

* * *

Leonard McCoy deserved a drink.

The fact that he _needed_ one was a given, of course.

Because after almost five touch-and-go days, the Fever That Just Wouldn't Die (as he had taken to calling it, all caps, thanks very much) finally decided to sit down and shut up, due in large part to an aggressive antibiotic treatment that Jim's stomach and throat weren't thanking him for, but the rest of him certainly was. And Jim made it out of bed for the first time today—albeit with quite a bit of help, which the stubborn mule didn't appreciate—and managed to stay awake, if not alert, for most of alpha shift. And he had been pestering McCoy the entire time.

So yes, McCoy deserved a drink, both in celebration for his patient's recovery, and for not snapping and picking up where Mother Nature had been thwarted.

The kid still looked like hell, but McCoy wasn't foolish enough to expect otherwise. From the winces that appeared every time Jim turned his head too far or spoke too loud, the head and neck pain was still a problem. And the fever, with its relentless cycling, had drained his reserves completely, making it difficult for the man to even hold a spoon steady.

Despite that, the idiot had thought his body was up for a trip to the bathroom; Jim was honestly lucky to have avoided the edge of the biobed and a head injury, after his legs has folded beneath him like a house of cards. McCoy's first instinct had been to reprimand, but sprawled on the floor in too-big scrubs and a serious case of bedhead, his friend looked so damn pitiful that he held back and merely called some nurses to help him ferry the man to the bathroom.

And if he thought about it, he didn't feel up to lecturing at all, really. This time, McCoy himself had been Jim's wingman in his flirtation with disaster, and had been in the position to stop it before it got too far—but, nevertheless, didn't. He knew that blaming himself wouldn't change anything, but it was difficult to keep the voice in the back of his mind quiet, especially since his quiet bedside vigils had given him more than enough time to think himself into a healthy serving of guilt.

The guilt would drain off, of course, like any healing wound, once things were back to normal on the ship. But for now, he could feel its gnawing presence.

McCoy paused in his charting to check on his now suspiciously quiet patient. McCoy thought the man might have finally dropped off, but a glance over at his biobed proved him wrong. Jim was worrying his lip with his teeth and trying his best to shred yet another Starfleet issue blanket, and also doing possibly the worst job ever at sending covert looks in McCoy's direction. Obviously, something was bothering him, beyond the requisite physical pains.

Sighing, McCoy stood up from his makeshift desk—born out of the necessity of always keeping Jim in his sightline—and walked stiffly toward his friend. He had made a note, after the past few days, to get Sickbay some ergonomically correct chairs. And double flagged it.

He halted beside his friend, arms crossed.

"Out with it, Jim."

"What?" Jim's face immediately snapped into 'innocent' mode—a trained habit, McCoy assumed, after years getting caught with his pants down.

"You're being fidgety. And you're only fidgety when you have something unpleasant to tell me, or when you've caught Hegelian ringworm. So which is it?"

"Erm, well it's not so much 'unpleasant.'" The tone in Jim's voice was hard to read, but the lack of retort was telling. "I just—I have a question, I guess, and I don't think you're going to react well to it."

The hell? McCoy looked closely at his friend, taking in the uncertainty in his eyes and the deep bruising beneath them that only time and rest would fade.

"Do you have to go to the bathroom again?"

Jim blushed furiously. "God, no. Thanks for bringing that up."

"Anytime." McCoy had, of course, known that wasn't the issue, but he had also known that talks with Jim Kirk go better when loosened by whiskey or a laugh. And Jim wasn't getting any of his whiskey today.

"Actually, I was wondering if you could fill in some gaps in my memory."

"Okay, shoot." Not what he had expected, certainly. "What are you having trouble remembering?"

Jim refused to meet his eyes now. "Um, what happened to me, to start with. Along with all the events surrounding it. Before and after. Yeah, that would be useful."

"Memory loss? And you've been waiting all day to mention it because?" McCoy struggled against his natural tendency to berate his friend.

"This is the first time we've been alone. And, well, I didn't want anyone else but you knowing, Bones. It's bad enough that this," Jim gestured to his weak body, "is on display."

Oh Jim.

"Aw kid, with what you've been through, no one would hold it against you. That crew would follow you into hell, but they don't expect you to be superhuman."

Jim's face flushed, and out of the corner of his eye, McCoy watched the man's heart rate steadily climb.

"I don't even _know_ what I've been through, first of all." Jim held up a hand when McCoy tried to interrupt. "But regardless, no matter what's happened, I am the captain of this ship. I don't have the right to be vulnerable in the eyes of the crew, and can't afford the luxury of being anything less than perfect. If I do, they lose faith, and I lose command."

His pulse was far too high now, and his voice had an edge of hysteria to it. He was giving in to mental exhaustion as much as physical.

"Just calm down, Jim. You're wrung out and you're scared—you have every right to be." McCoy paused, taking a deep breath. "I was pretty damn scared for the past few days too. So why don't you just sit back and let me catch you up, okay?"

Any other situation and Jim would have had his ass for 'patronizing him,' but for now he was responding well to the voice McCoy normally reserved for Joanna's post-nightmare calls.

And McCoy would deal with the inherent problems of that comparison later.

"So, what's the last thing you remember?"

"Talking with the Admiralty about the situation on Attros. And some flashes of prepping for a conference with them." Jim went back to picking at that damn blanket. "Should I assume that negotiations went sour? Or that I used the wrong dinner fork or something?"

Ah, now McCoy saw it. The kid thought he had messed up. And the freshest thing in his mind was the Admiralty's warning against doing exactly that.

"For once, this was out of your hands, Jim. You were sick—incredibly sick—and between the fever, the seizures, and all the drugs I shot into you before you went down, I'm not surprised the trip is a blank for you."

Jim looked at him oddly, thoughtfully. "_Before_ I went down? You knew I was sick, and didn't immediately knock me out and drag me to Sickbay?"

McCoy flinched as his gnawing guilt took a bigger bite. "I should have, believe me. I was fully aware just how sick you were and yet actually _listened_ to you, despite my better instincts. And dammit, Jim, you almost died because of it."

There was a heavy pause as McCoy waited for a reaction.

"Well, I imagine I was quite persuasive. I'm told that's a particular talent of mine."

McCoy felt the frown that had been growing soften, and some of the guilt melt away from his chest.

"I believe 'interplanetary war' was implied."

* * *

Jim was relieved to see the smile on Bones' face; for a while there, he knew his friend had been balanced on the sharp edge of self-blame, and even if he couldn't remember much of anything, he at least knew that _that_ was undeserved. He himself felt calmer—though he would insist to the end that his eyes had been watering because of the lights, and not from any undue emotions.

His friend had filled him in on everything he had missed, from the Admiralty's manipulation to the bluffing Attrosities to an apparently brilliant speech of his that made "those rat bastards wet their pants." Jim was angry, of course; he never liked being 'handled,' and certainly not by the higher-ups. But he was having a hard time holding onto that anger, now that he was watching Bones reenact Spock's post-Attros videoconference with the Admiralty; he was getting pretty good at his Vulcan Face.

"I swear to God, Jim, I expected them to start sucking their thumbs and callin' for their mommas." Bones had been on hand to share his report if needed, but apparently Spock was 'sufficiently prepared' to take on the bigwigs himself. Jim only regretted that Bones hadn't thought to sneak a camera in there, though at least he was graced with a first-hand account.

"Ow, Bones, stop making me laugh. I think my brain is still a little loose up here."

Bones flashed him a concerned look and automatically reached for a hypo.

"Wait wait, don't put me down yet. There's still one detail you've left out: What disease do I actually _have_?" Jim looked on curiously as his friend reached for a PADD that had been left on a bedside cart.

"I figured you'd ask, and I figured it'd be easier to just _give_ you the information. It's called _vegan choriomeningitis_."

Jim frowned. "Well that doesn't sound good." And it wasn't, based on what he gleaned from a quick scan of the info file. The word "contagious" in particular caught his eye.

"Geez, Bones, have I started an outbreak?? Why am I not quarantined? Why isn't anyone else sick? Where did I even get it—we've been on the ship the past two weeks?" Jim's stomach dropped as he imagined compromising the health of the whole ship—and possibly that of the entire planet of Attros.

"I gave that to you so you wouldn't ask _me_ all these questions." Bones rolled his eyes as he plucked the PADD from Jim's hands.

"But you're such a better explainer, Bones." Jim threw in a little pout; in truth, his eyes didn't want to focus on the screen, but he didn't want to tell Mr. Hypo that.

"Explainer?" His friend shook his head but plopped down in a seat by Jim's biobed nonetheless. "First of all, no one else is sick because no one else is allergic to the vaccine, and therefore they all received it as part of their routine childhood immunizations,_ like they were supposed to_."

"As if that's my fault!"

"I wouldn't put it past you to have willed most of your allergies into being to avoid the immunization hypos. Anyway, as to how you got it, the mode of transmission is part of why it's called **vegan** choriomeningitis. It can only be transmitted from plant to human—not human-to-human or human-to-anything else—and only then from ingesting an infected plant. And it's got about a two-week incubation period, so it took some time to hit you."

Plant to human? Wait.

"Wait. Wait wait. Are you saying I got this from eating my vegetables?" Bones instantly started playing with a hangnail, and was quite deliberately not looking him in the eye.

"Yeah, must have been on Rydan, at the greeting banquet they held," the man said nonchalantly. "We've let them know that some of their crop must have been contaminated, but since it's not a disease that Rydans can catch, they weren't terribly concerned."

"You mean, the banquet where you wouldn't let me skip the first three courses and go straight to those amazing-looking desserts? Because 'Dammit Jim, you can't just eat cake for dinner'?"

"Well, yes, that'd be the one." Apparently, the doctor had extremely interesting hangnails. But he was busted. So. Busted.

"See, this is what happens when I listen to you. 'Medical advice,' my ass."

"Don't be such an infant." Bones reached over to give him a light cuff on the shoulder. "Ask Spock—the odds of this happening were astronomical."

"Have we met?"

"This is true."

Jim sighed and leaned back against his pillows, feeling strangely satisfied despite the amnesia, pounding headache, and ridiculous physical weakness.

"Well, at least one good thing came out of this whole situation."

"And what's that, Jim?"

"I am _never_ eating salad again. And you, sir, can't make me."

Jim fought the urge to stick out his tongue. But, conceding it a no-win situation, he lost.

* * *

**A/N**:** Holy moly! My first ever completed fic! Thanks to everyone who patiently waited out the last month—I hope you enjoyed the extra-long ending, I did my damndest to do you guys justice.**

**As always, thank you so much to all my readers and reviewers. You guys are the best, and make me happier than a clam. And a special superduper thanks to ColtDancer—literally _wouldn't_ have done it without you, though now it's your turn to be prodded ;) Or is it time for that collab now?**

**And that's all she wrote.**


End file.
